


La Petite Mort

by heyfrenchfreudiana



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5 Times, Bros who fuck, Coitus Interruptus, Crack, F/M, Kitchen Sex, Oh My God, Poor Darcy, Steve is clueless, elmo on fire, holy moly this is so cracky, lots of feelings, poor communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:12:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5100656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfrenchfreudiana/pseuds/heyfrenchfreudiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times that Steve and Natasha were caught having sex and the one time they got away with it. AKA Darcy is horribly underpaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. le petit déjeuner (breakfast)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnnieMar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieMar/gifts), [leftennant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leftennant/gifts), [elcapitan_rogers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elcapitan_rogers/gifts).



> Written after a lovely and inspired late-night conversation with the Romanogers fangroup on Line and inspired by events hinted at over in the Wintershock/Ducky ship (see [Classic Combination](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4247133) and [Three Weeks, Ten States, and One Million Reasons to Fall for You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4846088). Per [this discussion on tumblr](http://heyfrenchfreudiana.tumblr.com/post/131267434889/anniemar-heyfrenchfreudiana-leftylain), Romanogers in the kitchen is canon fight me (ง •̀_•́)ง (ง •̀_•́)ง
> 
> Beta'd by Spanglecap and enabled by ElCapitanRogers.

-Un-

It started with an argument over cereal.

A really dumb argument, Steve admitted, though he wasn’t necessarily the best at picking his battles and he had a feeling Natasha knew that. And it really was a kind of “ _tomato versus tomaaato_ ” disagreement, but conceding that she was right meant that she’d won. Steve didn’t mind letting Natasha win many things, but he hadn’t even had breakfast. And she’d probably (almost definitely) known he’d take the bait.

“You’re doing it wrong, you know,” she’d said as he’d poured a bowl of frosted flakes into a bowl in the Tower kitchen. He raised an eyebrow and briefly wondered why he hadn’t just eaten in his apartment, but then he’d shrugged her off and reached for the carton of milk.

“I mean, it’s probably not a big deal, but you know you pour the milk first,” she said as she sat next to him with a yogurt cup. Some fancy, overpriced yogurt that had fancy fruits inside he’d never even heard of.

“Natasha, you know that just doesn’t make any sense,” he sighed, letting her pull him into the discussion. He wouldn’t say that Natasha was one of those people who liked to argue, _per se_. Not like Tony, where every damn little thing was a battle. But she did like to spar, either physically or verbally, and didn’t back down. Steve had a hunch that she also liked to rile him up.

“Steve, soggy cereal doesn’t make any sense. Why would you ruin your cereal that way?”

“Why would you want more milk than cereal? Seems kind of pointless and messy to me,”

“Pointless?”

“Don’t you want your cereal to get wet? Isn’t that the point of pouring the cereal first?”

He watched as she put her spoon down and sat back in her chair, looking very much like the spider about to strike. “Why would you want to start out with dry when you could start out with wet?”

Her question was exactly the point at which Steve realized that he was stuck and that it didn’t really matter what he said. She didn’t, as she’d hinted, really care about the order of cereal and milk. They could have been talking about the weather and she would have looked for a way to get him going.

A game, maybe. He watched as she eyed him carefully, legs crossed and the kind of smirk he saw on her lips right before she had a man on his knees. The word _foreplay_ passed through his mind.

It was a gamble. They’d already had a history and so it wasn’t unthinkable, he decided, that Natasha was flirting and tossing out entendres. A history not just as partners, though he noted that in some ways she knew him better than anyone just because she was his partner, had fought alongside him in times he knew they were lucky to have escaped alive. But also for the intimacy that had been created from those times. Frustrating and frenetic moments of physical contact after a gunfight, with either of them pinned against the wall in a tight bathroom and not even time to take off clothes because adrenaline coursing through their veins said that the only thing more important than the smell of smoke in her hair or the drying trickle of blood near his ear was the feel of her legs wrapped around him as he fit inside her and blocked out everything.

_(He’d once heard someone- Clint maybe- call this ‘bros who fuck’. Something Steve decided not to think too hard about. She’d initiated that aspect of their relationship more often than not, after all. And as hard as she fought and as hard as they fought alongside each other, it did make sense that they’d connect on that level too, right? She’d never asked for anything more, though he’d certainly wondered what it would be like to give more to her… At the end of the day, Steve decided, part of being her partner was meeting her needs in the aftercare of battle. A trust and intimacy was there that he was grateful to have. If all she wanted was a “bro”, he figured it was the least he could do.)_

It was a gamble, but after careful consideration for who might be awake in the Tower and how much time they had, Steve put his own spoon down and met her eyes.

“Yes, it’s true, Natasha. Wet is better.”

He watched as she squirmed in her seat, face smug and satisfied, a hand on the thin string of strap to the tank top he figured she’d worn to bed the night before. Natasha was beautiful all the time. Beautiful dirty and exhausted, beautiful when fierce and pissed off, fucking breathtaking when dolled up for whatever reason work demanded. But most especially beautiful in moments when he knew she wasn’t trying. A Natasha with a face clear of makeup and probably not even wearing a bra because she was technically at as close-to-home as they might ever have, and he didn’t know which parts of him ached more. (If she asked, he’d go the safe route and pretend that it was only below the belt that he felt anything because he figured that’s what she wanted and how relationships were in the new age…)

Of course, when he was on his knees and spreading her legs at the kitchen table where he knew Clint and Darcy would be discussing coffee and comic books in about eleven minutes, even he knew that it was more than physical. More than enough time, he reasoned, because he did like a challenge.

“Holy fucking shit,” she whispered, hands flat on the table like she was practicing some kind of restraint, her soft checkered pajama pants down and hanging from one ankle. “Oh, you can be so good, goddamn…”

He loved hearing her curse. Loved hearing her tell him about how good he was as he licked and sucked and kissed the parts of her that were very wet indeed. It could have been- and probably was- a lie, but he wondered if he did things just right, if she’d maybe tell the truth. If maybe he might be able to change her mind. Fleeting thoughts that passed through his mind as he applied more pressure to her clit. _Everything about her is perfect. It’s like a tiny fucking cock and I really would sit here all day if she asked me to_ , he thought as she dug a heel into his spine.

She was mumbling in Russian, his favorite part, when he heard a third party squeak. He’d stopped on instinct, instantly regretting the decision because she’d been so close, banging his head on the underside of the table in the process.

“ _Jesus, fuck_!” the other person could be heard exclaiming. _Darcy_? He scrambled to match the voice with a face, his hand rubbing the tender spot on his scalp. Peering up from between Natasha’s legs he could see the flush of her skin, something that was very very good. Following her gaze though, he could also definitely see an open-mouthed intern standing frozen in the doorway.

Dr. Foster’s assistant looked simultaneously horrified and embarrassed and about ready to start laughing, the latter probably because Steve recognized that his face was probably as red as the hair he was kneeling in front of.

“ _JesusfuckJesusfuckJesusfuck_ ….” She cursed again, eyes darting between him and Natasha before backing out of the kitchen. “Jesus fuck and hurry up, I haven’t had enough caffeine yet to mentally get around what this even is...” he heard her as she disappeared from sight.

“Yes, wet is definitely better,” he said as he helped Natasha pull her pants back on.

“Told you so,” she responded, a sweet smile on her lips as if they hadn’t just been caught- and importantly, interrupted. He opened his mouth to suggest she come back to his place, if only to talk about it, something he held in when she motioned toward the door.

“I’m going to check on Lewis. I’ll see you later?”

 _Bros who fuck_. He nodded and reasoned that it was probably for the best. Talking would make things complicated. They had a good system. The last thing Steve wanted was complicated.

 


	2. le lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come onnn, French. Why do you have to have the same word for breakfast AND lunch. Sigh.

-Deux-

 

_Sex pollen._

According to Bruce, it was scientifically possible. They'd all scoffed when he said as much, because it really did sound like the kind of farfetched storyline as seen in a bad skin flick. Steve honestly couldn't really understand why it would even be a useful biochemical weapon, although he did figure it would serve as a painful distraction. Something he was glad existed only in theory and on late night cable television movies, (he'd found those by accident, thankfully when alone).

He didn’t believe in the existence of sex pollen or its variants, but it was the first thing he thought of as he lifted Natasha up against the cold steel of the kitchen refrigerator. It was the only logical reason why he'd feel so hungry for her, why he was suddenly so hot and parched and _stupid_ for her. His eyes were closed as he kissed into her throat and the sound of her breath, shaky and gasping harder than it had been at the gym they'd just gotten back from had him feeling smug _and he just wanted more_.

The idea, or at least what he’d told himself, was that he was just going to kiss her. They'd come up sweaty and muscles just the right amount of sore, and he really only wanted to kiss her. Not even in the way that they often kissed, messy and starving. The kind of kisses that led to fucking because they were just so dirty and anxious that there was no other way.

He'd actually given it a lot of thought, because her mouth deserved to be kissed softly like in the movies, (nice, romantic movies like a guy would take his girl to see on a Friday night). Her lips were consistently soft and even though he'd tried sketching them a few times, he'd never get them right. Even when he thought he was close, he'd start thinking about all of the wicked things he'd seen those lips do, sometimes with a hint of dark pink tongue, and he had to stop or he'd be drawing something pornographic.

She'd been leaning against the freezer door and holding a water bottle to her neck when he'd decided to try, and he'd only wanted to lean in and give her a quick peck. They were in the Tower kitchen, after all, and he remembered how well that had turned out. He'd just wanted something quick. Something to say that while he knew the status of things, knew what they were to each other, knew he was just one of her "bros", that he also really cared for her.

What he wanted was to be able to give a quick kiss in passing. A quick sign of affection. Nothing really worth anything at all. Not really much different than a pat on the back.

That was his intention, until he was standing in front of her open-mouthed and fumbling to remember what he wanted in the first place. Natasha’s skin glowed, the prize for the time she'd just put in downstairs, and he figured she was probably dying for a hot shower which had him thinking about her naked and wet underneath the shower head.

_Goddammit._

"Do you want something, Rogers?" she asked, but he heard more rasp and heavy in her voice than the sarcasm he would have expected. Her eyes were dark and it looked like she was about to melt into the metal door, and he only wanted to give her a quick kiss and maybe ask her to pass him a water bottle of his own.

Moving close to her, she looked so deceivingly small and he knew she'd be like nothing to pick up. He'd carried her plenty of times to know how light she could be. She looked up at him, mouth open and waiting and even when he'd bent down to kiss her, he'd still clung to the end goal of it only lasting a quick second.

He bent down to press his lips to hers and she'd moaned. A small and almost needy whine that was so _not-_ Natasha that he'd let himself slip into more because it was like music. He didn’t even know fully why he was being so stubborn and resistant, hands on either side of her and bracketing her in as she tilted her chin up and whimpered into him. A part of him wondered if that was some kind of manipulation tactic. A psychological weapon she’d picked up along the way to make him feel like a caveman, something to completely override all of his best intentions.

The refrigerator was cool but everything else was suddenly scalding, like they were in the middle of a July heatwave, and he thought about the possibility that maybe he’d been drugged or at least that he’d have a good idea of what to expect if he ever _was_ drugged. She’d long since dropped her water on the floor so that she could pull fists of his shirt and then there they were, wet tongues and clacking teeth and all of the desperation like always.

The theory behind sex pollen, as he understood it, was that the poor and unfortunate sap to be injected or gassed or however would end up so chemically wound up with want, that the only option for relief was through intercourse. Literally fuck or die, as crude as that sounded. It was an idea that suddenly made sense to Steve, especially after Natasha’d moved one of her hands to his cock, gripping it even through his track pants. There they were, again in a public space, and public decency said that he really needed to reel things in but he felt irrational and possessed. There were rules and ways to go about things and a part of him felt frustrated that they were always this way, but he couldn’t think because she tasted like salt and he swore he could hear the roar of blood in her jugular and he was dizzy above her like a drunk.

It was like there was an angel on one shoulder saying, _this isn_ _’_ _t going to end well_.

The devil just laughed. Natasha’s breath was hot in his ear and she was so light and he figured maybe he might even get away with just a little bit, even if they couldn’t finish then and there…

“Fuck, I need you inside me,” she panted. He’d already been rutting into her hand like a goddamned needy teenager, a hand on her breast and the other a tight fist against the fridge door.

“We could go to my place…” Steve choked into her ear, begging her before moving so his forehead was pressed against the cool steel.

She shook her head and pulled him out without warning…

 _Fuck or die. I am about to die_ _…_ _._

….which was probably wise because he would have protested. That would have been a dumb and selfish mistake, he decided seconds later when she’d kicked off her yoga pants and he had her in his arms, legs squeezing into his side as they adjusted to the angle.

“Has it always been this hot?” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, in reference to just about everything. Natasha laughed and kissed him, her features soft and tender in contrast to the fact that she’d dug her nails into his ass and was clenched around him like a vice.

“What are you doing to me?” she whispered into his ear as he buried himself in her. It was a good question, something he wished he could answer not that he was capable of forming complete sentences at the time. “ _Oh God_ …”

“Oh God,” he echoed, feeling lightheaded and close.

“Oh God,” Bruce Banner cursed, voice clipped.

“What? Christ, _really_?” He heard Darcy moan. “Come on, _guys_. We eat here. We eat _actual food_ here.”

Apparently, intoxication by imaginary sex pollen failed to consider the weekly science lunch meeting between Banner and Dr. Foster, (and therefore, Lewis) on Thursdays. As he scrambled to help Natasha cover up, he was grateful that Stark hadn’t arrived in time to catch him with his dick out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am re-working chap 3 but wanted to post two in a row so that I could say "heyyy I know I have a shit ton of WIPs but seeeee, I love you guys and I promise I complete my fics!"


	3. le casse-croûte (a snack)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In contrast to lunch, there are like a billion ways to say snack :) 
> 
> Also, Darcy totes ships it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the wonderful response. I am so appreciative and feel well-fed by the love :)

-Trois-

 

“Tony Stark is a troll,” Darcy said sympathetically, plopping beside him on the couch. “He’s not wrong. But he is also a troll.”

Steve put his paperback down to give her a weak smile, knowing she was right and grateful for the unsolicited support. She stirred the Styrofoam cup of noodles she’d been holding before giving him a quick wink and a click of her tongue. It was a sign that she at least was willing to let the whole business of being caught with Natasha go, something that certainly helped ease his guilty conscience just a bit.

All of her kindness in reference to the emails and text messages that the team had gotten over the past few days. It had started with a memo- emailed and then posted on the kitchen refrigerator- from Stark reminding everyone of proper behavior and protocol for shared spaces.

( _I know it_ _’_ _s ironic coming from me, and I_ _’_ _m not pointing fingers, but we all live and work here. Consideration of others is required before engaging in lewd or indecent acts in common areas, including but not limited to reckless exposure of genitals, and/or sexual acts that would cause anyone present alarm, offense, or emotional trauma_ _…_ _)_

The memo had felt fair enough though he saw Natasha roll her eyes and rip the fridge note away the second she’d seen it. They did know better and he couldn’t really blame the team for saying something. It was a position he certainly never thought he’d be in. Steve Rogers who can’t keep it in his pants. Steve Rogers, pervert and exhibitionist. There was probably a special place in hell for him.

Of course, Tony being who he was, hadn’t let things go with just a memo. Because following those memos, were the ridiculous text messages. Anyone clicking on the attachment would hear exaggerated moans and see cartoon drawings of food engaged in sexual acts, ( _he heard a few cackles at the one of two pieces of toast with faces drawn on, the one on top saying_ _“_ _I_ _’_ _m gonna crumb!_ _”_ ), followed by an audio version of the memo ( _audio version necessary for the elderly who can_ _’_ _t read small print_ ).

He thought he deserved all of the ribbing and maybe more, for his poor self-control. Really, he needed to find a way to shut it down. For the good of the team, for the sake of the hygiene he’d heard someone whisper when they didn’t think he was listening, for the sole fact that he really didn’t want to impair the professional relationship he’d established with Natasha.

As a consequence, Steve had intentionally avoided the kitchen. He _had_ a kitchen of his own and so coming down for coffee or a bite to eat really wasn’t necessary. Especially when he thought Natasha might be around but even when she was away as a precaution. He thought about how it might have affected her credibility and what people thought of her that she’d been caught with him not once but twice. Things hadn’t changed that much in seventy years and he could remember what people said about girls who had loose boundaries. Even if the girl hadn’t actually given Bobby Johnson a handjob in the back of his father’s car or even if the rumor that she’d been tossed between the highschool football team was so clearly more legend than fact, Steve could remember those also being the girls who disappeared, dropping out of school or worse in hopes that most had forgotten (though it seemed they never did).

Nastasha Romanoff was so much more than being caught with her pants around her ankles. Just as smart as the scientists, holding more than her own athletically, Natasha was also funny as hell and dimensional, something people often realized right as their lives flashed before their eyes. Loyal, foolishly self-sacrificing, and a possibly dangerous combination of brave and stubborn. Protecting her from Stark’s inappropriate sex jokes or office gossip was important. Steve figured he’d be maybe even redeeming himself a little in the process.

“I guess all of the jokes are well-deserved,” he admitted as Darcy took in a spoonful of her soup.

She shrugged. “If you say so. Honestly, I think it’s cute once I get past the creepiness of it all. I don’t know why I didn’t ship the two of you together before.”

Steve didn’t entirely follow but he took the compliment anyway. “I apologize again, Darcy.”

“Nah, really. But so are you guys officially an item yet? Let me know if you need any date night ideas because I have a few. Like this image of the two of you ice skating that keeps popping up that is so fucking sweet I think it’s given me a cavity…”

He didn’t answer her question because he was busy chewing it over, not because it was really a conversation he wanted to have with Darcy but maybe because he’d avoided thinking about it at all.

“Just friends…” he heard himself say, despite his better instincts, and then he was moving to stand up because they were entering a discussion he really didn’t want to have.

“Right,” Darcy said slowly. “According to who?”

“I’m going to go check on something,” he answered, hoping she’d take the hint because the collar of his shirt suddenly felt tight around his throat.

“Steven Grant Rogers,” Darcy narrowed her eyes and gave him the kind of look he would have expected from his mother. “as an Avenger, I beg you to have this conversation with Natasha…”

“You aren’t an Avenger,” he interrupted.

“Practically,” she answered, not skipping a beat. “And as a member of the team who has seen enough heart eyes between the two of you to fill my quota for the year, I beg you again to have this conversation with her. You don’t get to eat a girl out at the company kitchen table and pretend this is some kind of platonic meaningless thing…”

It was a cosmic coincidence that she’d made her point as Natasha appeared, looking very much like she’d just gotten back from a date herself, red hair pulled up into a loose bun and the kind of black cocktail dress on that had him thinking anything but platonic thoughts.

“My ears are burning,” she said with a straight face and he met her eyes, wondering what she’d even heard.

“Rogers, you’re gonna catch flies with your mouth open like that,” Darcy quipped before standing up with a yawn. “I’m a little afraid to leave the two of you in a room alone, so…”

“I’m actually going to the kitchen for some popcorn,” Natasha announced, tossing her clutch on the coffee table. “I promised Clint we’d watch this show he keeps telling me about…”

“Which one now? _The Bachelor_? _Dance Moms_?” Darcy grinned to Natasha’s shrug.

“I was going to go upstairs. Laundry,” Steve lied, eyes darting to the bare of her legs. He wanted to know where she’d gone dressed the way she was, not that he had any right to ask. And he was really dying to ask her why she would be watching reality television with Clint in that dress.

“This is uncomfortable,” Darcy added, handing Steve her empty cup. “But I’d rather not be present for what is going to come from all the eye-fucking. Just stay out of the kitchen, kids.”

Which is what Steve did. Picking up his book, he moved past Natasha, ignoring the magnetic pull because it looked like someone had taken a pair of shears to the front of her dress and he couldn’t imagine anyone not doing whatever she wanted for the space between her breasts that anyone with eyes could see… Darcy had hit a nerve but he really did have things he could be doing and staring at Natasha’s chest would only lead him down a bad path anyway.

They were _just friends_. Friends and colleagues who were intimate on occasion and it really wasn’t a big deal. When had he decided to make things weird? He thought about all of the times she’d made him uncomfortable, and all the times before their relationship had reached its’ present level that he’d thought about her both romantically and intimately.

 _It's_ _just because she'_ _s one of the few women here, he'_ _d tried to rationalize at the beginning, when he'_ _d first started working alongside her. He wasn'_ _t thinking anything that any other man hadn't_ _already thought of, at least about Natasha. He'd_ _thought of her as a colleague and someone to be admired and respected, in many ways no different than Peggy. And maybe because she paralleled Peggy enough in his mind and so clearly fit the kind of dame he knew he'd_ _always be a sucker for, he'd_ _initially figured he could find a way to brush it off._

 _The first time. He'd_ _been foolish to think that he'd be able to keep things the same as they’d_ _been before.   A hotel room on a mission in which he was clearly the muscle and she was the back-up, and he'd_ _been setting up a pallet on the floor when he'd_ _caught a glimpse of her through a door that should have been shut, as she decompressed in the bathroom. Her hair, normally straightened, had curled post-shower and he stood hypnotized, watching as she did her best to towel it dry. And it was Natasha who'd_ _called him in, meeting his eyes in the mirror before turning to pull him to her._

 _It's not a big deal, she'd_ _said, and he wished he'd_ _challenged her on that_ _…_

He got as far as the elevator before his phone buzzed in his pocket. A short text from Natasha.

**We need to talk.**

It was exactly the kind of message he wanted to see from her because it was exactly what he would have said himself, had he thought putting it into a text would be so simple. They _did_ need to talk, especially before things got harder. Before someone got hurt.

 **When and where** **,** he answered back.

When she texted that she was waiting for him in the kitchen, Steve audibly groaned, feet planted to the ground like he was wearing lead boots. _Fool me once,_ or so the saying went.

**There’s no one here.**

As Steve sighed and walked over, he wondered if she was as masochistic as he. Something about the kitchen had to be pulling at her as much as him or it wouldn’t keep happening. At the very least, she would have been wary, would have suggested they meet in another room or better yet a public place.

She stood, black heels that made him want to weep and that damned dress, against the kitchen counter, and every cell in Steve’s body screamed for her.

“You don’t have to stay in the doorway, I’m not going to try anything,” she smirked, arms folded. The air smelled like popcorn and he could see the bag next to her. A reminder of her plans for that evening and proof that she really did have other things to do.

“It’s just that we kind of have bad luck in here,” he shrugged, hoping he could play off his nervousness as sarcasm.

“I don’t really care about Stark,” she announced quickly, as though saying the words fast gave her a sense of relief.

“Yeah, I know. But still…” he looked at the floor.

“What really matters is how this affects… it’s like you’re afraid of me now. Afraid to be near me or something.”

Steve wanted to tell her that she was ridiculous, except that she was right. Standing in front of him, face pained and uncertain, and he wanted to scoff and say that things were fine. Just friends, right? And so getting caught really was just something they should be laughing at before moving on with business as usual.

“I’m not afraid of you, Natasha,” he said softly because he was afraid. He could feel the fissures of their camaraderie and everything about their relationship that wasn’t sex rupture before his eyes. _But I want more. I want to buy you flowers and take things slow and put my arm around you when we are in public… “_ I just don’t want to make things complicated.”

Steve winced, not sure if he’d chosen the right words. He didn’t miss the confusion.

“Complicated,” Natasha echoed, eyes narrowed.

 _Bros who fuck_ , he reminded himself. Nothing new, no strings attached. “Well, starting with the fact that we are in the kitchen.”

“So you don’t want to fuck me?” she challenged, body tense.

He opened his mouth to explain, feeling very much like he’d suddenly lost all language comprehension. “What? Natasha, God, you know I do, just…”

She huffed, face betraying frustration and confusion, before turning back toward her popcorn, and Steve reached for her shoulder. He didn’t know how to tell her that he wanted more, that he wanted everything, in such a way that she’d understand, without losing what they’d built up…

“Natasha, can we leave the kitchen? And maybe can you change? This dress is damn distracting…”

“Maybe distracting is the point, Rogers. Maybe you shouldn’t be thinking too hard when I’m wearing a dress like this.”

“Yeah, but Clint…” Steve protested, stopping when he realized she’d kicked off her shoes and was pushing him into the pantry.

“Yeah, but Clint isn’t going to get to see what’s underneath this dress,” she pointed out, hiking the hemline up just enough to tease.

He kept arguing, his brain still stuck on the overarching Issue That They Were Obviously Not Going to Talk About, when he realized what she’d said, his eyes glazing over the sight of her thighs and everything he knew was there.

“Am I going to get to see what’s underneath that dress?” he asked, face hot and hands itching to touch.

He wondered if she was as addicted as he, or if she was a little crazy, or both. A force of nature and he did not care.

She bit her lip and smiled innocently, not answering the question, at least not in words.

“I mean, if you wouldn’t mind… But not here,” Steve reminded her as she leaned in to kiss him again.

“Right, that would be a bad idea,” she said in agreement, standing on her toes to kiss along his chin and his collar.

“Besides, you have plans with Clint right? Some program about dancing… Dancing moms…” his voice trailed as she pulled his hands to her waist.

“I think I remember something about that,” Natasha reached up to pull her hair down., letting it cascade down on her bare shoulders. Steve met her eyes and swallowed.

“Wow,” he said because it was the only word he could come up with, wishing he could be more eloquent or that another word existed to communicate how stunning she was. She responded with a smile, a touch of sadness in her eyes that he wished he could wipe away. But Steve wasn’t sure how and so he pressed his lips to hers instead, wondering if maybe he would be enough to help her at least temporarily forget.

Which was how Steve Rogers did indeed get to find out what was underneath that dress. Specifically, something lacy that barely covered anything at all. He took a few wild guesses at the color as his fingers brushed over the patterns that ran down her backside and along the front. They should have been agreeing to meet upstairs in a few hours but instead, she was gripping the door frame, dress pushed up to her stomach as he held her from behind, fingers exploring half by muscle memory while he sucked on her shoulders and she pressed painfully into him.

“When is someone coming?” he asked, pushing his index finger inside just enough to make her knees buckle.

“Keep that up and hopefully me soon, “she sighed, head resting on his shoulder, a hand fumbling at his zipper.

“That’s not what I meant. Kitchens…” Steve reminded her, noting that his hand didn’t act like it had any intention of stopping, much more interested in how far he could get without pulling her underwear off, much more interested in the way her hips moved against him or the sounds coming from the back of her throat when the heel of his hand pressed against her. ..

He gave up trying when he felt her hand find its’ way into his pants. Bracing himself against the shelves of canned goods and non-perishables and hoping he wouldn’t end up breaking something, Steve gave up thinking altogether.

“We aren’t technically in the kitchen,” she purred as she slid to her knees in front of him, no doubt in his mind about who had all of the control right then and there.

“Right. Makes sense,” he choked out before shutting his eyes tight because her mouth felt like Christmas. He decided that maybe the closet was the trick, at least to one of them finishing, though it probably also had something to do with the fact that he could feel his mind unravel every time her tongue hit that one spot. Her face was just a little red and all he’d meant to do was brush the strand of hair away that had fallen in front of her eyes, but then Natasha was looking up at him and _holy hell_ , he couldn’t believe his life.

“Natasha…” he whispered, begging her to stop but also begging her to keep going. “Natasha, wait…”

Weak protests and he knew she knew it by the way she rolled her eyes and squeezed his legs, and he wasn’t sure if he was suddenly harder or if she was wetter or what even was happening but…

“Ugh, but why not something smarter, Clint? You know those shows are scripted…” a voice cut through right as his brain was about to shut down.

“It’s like I can’t turn away,” Clint answered, sounding as loud as if he was really right outside the pantry door. Natasha’s mouth froze around him and Steve held back a whimper because it really seemed like they were cursed.

“Are these Natasha’s?’ Darcy asked and Steve thought about the heels she must have left on the kitchen floor.

“They aren’t mine,” Clint answered.

Silence.

Natasha looked up, pulling off and wiping her mouth slowly. A sight that had Steve twitching even though it wasn’t supposed to be erotic. Holding his breath, he started to say a quick prayer that the intruders would leave soon.

“Fuck,” he heard Darcy swear. “Fuucck. Clint, those are Natasha’s…”

“Right,” he could be heard answering without much interest. “Hey, does this popcorn taste like it needs salt? I think it needs salt. Where’s the salt?”

“Fucking teenagers,” she hissed. “the pantry, I think.”

“Thanks,”

_Of course._

“Wait!” Darcy screeched as Natasha scrambled to stuff Steve back into his pants.

The Black Widow was fast but not fast enough, because even if nothing was exposed, anyone could have figured out why she was on her knees in front of a flustered Captain America.

Trying to fix his zipper. An excuse no one bought, no matter how convincing Natasha was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, God. Why is every cover from the Noto run so perfect???  
> 


	4. le dîner (dinner)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Added on Halloween night at least in Southern California, though nothing spooky here except for all teh unfulfilled sexual fru-uh-stra-tion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd but many thanks to [NowhereJules](http://killianandemmajones.tumblr.com/) for pointing out my French :)

-Quatre-

 

One of the perks of being an Avenger and of living in the Avengers Tower, was that Steve didn’t have to do the dishes. None of them did. There were people who were paid good money to make sure that the floors were swept and mopped, to make sure that the random coffee mug was washed and put away. The same staff that was at Steve’s disposal for cleaning his own pad if he asked for it, though he insisted on the opposite.

Not that any of them had the time, but he really didn’t mind spending all of the five or ten minutes it took to wash a few dishes. He considered it a moving meditation, if anything, filling up the sink with hot water and lemon-scented soap just because he could, even for a handful of cups that could probably have been rinsed out without all of the extra work. In his own time, soap had been soap. The same soap for laundry was the soap one used on the dishes or bathing, and all of the chipped plates and cups were dried and put right away. Extra and probably inefficient steps, according to just about everyone after they’d reminded him that there _was_ a dishwashing machine.

On the night that they’d gathered to wish Darcy a ‘happy birthday’, no one had been surprised when Steve volunteered to wash up. A small prelude to the ‘girl’s night’ she’d been promised later, the team had gathered around the intern who maybe was as valuable as she would suggest, in order to open gifts and eat fat slices of German chocolate cake.

His gender prohibited him from knowing for sure, but Steve had a pretty good idea of what happened on girls’ nights. For Darcy’s birthday, he figured they were less likely to head over to the three-dollar-beer dive and even more so if Pepper (read: Tony) was paying. But he could at least imagine the girls sharing fancy drinks and sharing the kind of locker room talk to make his ears burn.

_Locker room talk_. The ego-driven part of him wondered if Natasha would talk about him. If she’d be trading information with Pepper, Maria, Jane, and Darcy about their casually-uncomplicated _thing._

_Thor and Jane._

_Tony and Pepper._

He wanted to think that someone might say, “And what about Steve, Natasha?” As if an _and_ belonged between him and Natasha.

He’d gone up and puttered around for awhile before returning to the kitchen when he knew Natasha and the girls were long gone. Safe, preventative, and a little cowardly but something he decided he needed to be stubborn about. No matter how intoxicating she was, he and Natasha needed to talk. Actually talk, before things got any more out of control than they were. Before the next mission. Before the next anything.

Rolling up his sleeves and grabbing a dishtowel for one shoulder, Steve quietly scraped the remnants of the aforementioned cake into the trash before sliding each plate, fork, and knife into its’ bath.

“Need someone to help dry?”

He’d been thinking about how much easier it was to clean dishes in the past, perhaps because the idea of leaving any extra food on a plate was criminal, when her voice cut through his consciousness. Steve put the fork he’d just finished in the dry sink to be rinsed, looking over his shoulder to give her a smile.

“As long as you make sure you don’t leave any lint,” he said, lightly teasing, his body tensing at her proximity.

“Nothing quite like a man washing the dishes,” she smiled next to him, grabbing the towel on his shoulder and leaning into him just so casually. As if there was nothing between them. Friendly banter and flirtations. Nothing to make him different from any other man on the team. _As it’s supposed to be,_ he reminded himself of the original frame for their relationship.

_Wanting something to be different doesn’t mean it should be different._

“You look nice, Natasha,” he answered her compliment with one of his own. She did, of course. The same monochromatic colors as always. Black jacket, white top. Short leather skirt, _goddammit not that he was going to look because they were grownups and he was her bro and he had no business looking at the curve of her ass._

No, better to keep his eyes on her face. Or better yet, the plate he’d been scrubbing for the past five minutes even though it was clearly clean.

“Thank you,” she said, holding her hands out for the plate. She looked so smart, giving him a sideways glance through dark eyelashes and he considered whether or not she’d mind if he threw her over his shoulder. Enough talking, suggesting, begging that they go somewhere else because he was strong enough to make her.

Steeling himself, he focused on the movie he had cued up for later that evening to cross off his to-watch list. On the pictures he’d already seen. On the plan to meet up with Sam in the morning. On anything other than Natasha. His partner and colleague, currently helping him with the dishes and then they’d go their separate ways.

“You guys are home early,” he said as he finished up the last piece of silverware, his hands shriveled from the water and his mind on whether or not it was possible for them to have a normal conversation anymore.

“I left before the others,” she shrugged, a quiet sigh chasing her words.

“Why? Big plans tomorrow?”

“Something like that,” she said after a pause.

The small smile he got in response would have been enough. Feeling her fingers thread through his was the unexpected surprise. The cherry on top.

“I was hoping to see if I could catch you, actually,” Natasha leaned into him.

_Why?_ The question was at the tip of his tongue, and she must have seen it, must have guessed, because the next thing he knew, she’d backhanded her palm in the water, splashing just the right amount of dishwater across the front of his shirt.

“Let it be known, Agent Romanoff,” he tipped his head and watched her take a step backwards, her eyes daring him to fight back. “That you hit first.”

If they’d been sparring in the gym, Steve would have probably been more ruthless. Enough times in the ring with her had taught him that a gentlemanly pat on her shoulder was step one to him pinned and catching his breath on his back. In the kitchen, however, he’d had some restraint. A small splash and she was, in all honestly, just barely affected.

Naivete, he later decided, because if they were in an arms’ race for splashing and making a mess, the first step in losing against her was in being gentle. And more specifically forgetting about the hose next to the faucet until her hand was on the trigger and he was slipping into the counter. _(Anyone leaving anything with a trigger next to Natasha Romanoff deserved what he got, she said)._

“Uncle!” he held his hands up and she laughed, tossing the hose into the sink. And Steve laughed with her, forgetting why he’d been nervous to be near her or why things had felt uncomfortable. Water everywhere and her hair in wet clumps, and anyone would say they were acting like children but Steve didn’t think anyone could blame them. When was the last time he’d felt like a kid? When had Natasha ever felt that way?

“Well, if we weren’t banned from the kitchen,” she put her hands on her hips and looked around.

“Probably should get some towels before someone finds us and gets sore,” he grinned and met her eyes.

“Right, I’ll help,” Natasha pulled her wet jacket off to lay it across the back of a nearby chair.

He hadn’t realized he’d groaned until her eyes met his and he could hear a laugh from the back of her throat. And Steve didn’t know what was worse, the fact that she was standing in front of him in a wet shirt that left nothing to his imagination or the fact that she’d gone to a bar without wearing a bra. The way her nipples jutted out nearly had him on his knees, and Steve _tried._ He tried to remember that they needed a towel. That they were ten minutes away from somewhere private and that he was almost certainly objectifying her and _red light, stop…_

He couldn’t even say her name. Got as far as lifting her onto the counter like she was nothing so that he could part her thighs and use his thumbs to circle and trace her nipples through the cloth. Standing in between her, Steve knew they’d get caught. He knew. But she’d gasped when he’d grabbed a thigh to pull her close, and it was as though maybe she hadn’t won the fight after all.

“I can’t be in the same room as you anymore,” he confessed, feeling tight all over and not knowing where to even start. She nodded, as if in agreement, before reaching up to grab the nape of his neck.

“We need to stop meeting this way,” she said as she arched into him, unspoken communication that his hands on her breasts were a good thing. “It’s starting to look like one or both of us need psychological help.”

“Natasha, please come up to my place. Or I’ll go to yours, I don’t care,” he whined, snaking a hand underneath her skirt, _just to check. For science, as Dr. Foster and Lewis would say._ An index finger finding out that a bra wasn’t the only thing she’d left at home and he was crying into her throat. “Natasha, please. Uncle, uncle, uncle…”

“Right, okay,” he heard her choke out, voice shaky and low as he let his fingertips dance along her lips. Teasing, he knew, though just as much against him as her because he’d already started rationalizing that if he stayed outside, it wouldn’t count.

“Okay,” he let himself inhale her perfume before kissing the part where her neck met her shoulders. It was like a hostage negotiation. A game of chicken to see if he had the courage to step away. “Okay, I’m going to go upstairs… Clean this up later…”

“It’s just water,” Natasha nodded, panting into his ear and he’d rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger without thinking, truly had meant to stop. The same way she’d meant not to let the small moan hit his ear, he supposed.

“Just, hold on…” he heard himself say as he looked down, wondering if he could get away with… she squirmed against his fingers and he knew she was trying to get more, knew she wouldn’t put up a fight… Bending down, he dipped his head so that he could take one of her breasts to his mouth. It doesn’t count, we are both clothed, his brain grasped for logic. And for a moment he agreed, if only because she’d wrapped a leg around him, was clutching his shirt for life as he let his tongue dance around her. Her shirt was still so wet and there was something so satisfying about taking it all- cloth, skin, water. He thought about how good it would feel to peel her shirt off, how much better it would be once they finally got upstairs. And if he pressed into her just so, she certainly could _feel_ how hard he was, how much he wanted her to the point that they’d probably not make it to an actual bed if she didn’t mind…

“Heyyyy, and Happy Birthday to me,” he heard Darcy slur, and he’d pulled hands away as though Natasha was electrified.

“Yes, it is,” Dr. Foster sang. “And there should be some leftover cake in here somewhere.”

“We have to wait for Natasha and Steve,” Darcy said, in a yell disguised as a whisper. “Don’t mind us, kids. We’re just here to find the cake.”

“And the booze,” Jane added, matching Darcy’s whisper. “Not drunk enough yet…”

“Fuck,” Natasha cursed into Steve’s ear and when he looked into her eyes, he could tell she was frustrated enough to hurt someone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as someone who pretends to be a smut writer, I follow enough NSFW blogs on tumblr that my husband has said "what the what are you looking at??" And there is this one gif of exactly this scene and it's driving me bonkers that I don't have it tagged so that I can find it. But if I do, I'll post it here and/or reblog for reasons.


	5. le dessert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheee!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porn without Plot. What is that? What? IS? That?

-Cinq-

There are a few truths in life, as follows:

_Never fight a land war with Russia._

_Never ask a woman if she’s pregnant._

_Always say ‘yes’ when Thor gives you alcohol._

The hangovers, though. Those were reason enough that Steve should have politely declined when Thor stood next to him and passed over a small brown flask pulled out of pocket. It had been a long day of paperwork and reports but not a bad day, because sometimes filling out forms was preferable to fighting aliens and risking life and limb. A day that ended when he’d gone over to the labs to check on the tracking system that Stark had been working on, something to do with magnets and dolphins and rock and roll music played so loud every window on the thirty-fourth floor rattled.

“Jesus take the wheel, I need alcohol,” he overheard Darcy Lewis mutter, arms full with rolls of paper and a traveling coffee mug carefully crooked in arm.

“Right behind you,” Dr. Foster called out, racing around the lab like a bee that flitted in between computer keyboards and the whiteboard near the door. It was the end of the day but the laboratories showed no signs of stopping and Steve was anxious to get in and out before he got stuck in anyone’s way.

“It’s like a supernova. Enough fireball to power the galaxy…” he watched Dr. Foster whisper as she scratched notes on the board.

“And I happen to have a bottle of Fireball at home that I don’t mind sharing,” Darcy interrupted, handing the doctor her coat and purse.

“A bottle of what?” Thor asked, walking in from the hallway toward them, casually inspecting the science.

“It’s whiskey,“ Darcy explained. “And it’s Friday, and I need it. So does she. And I’m not sure you’re invited, even if you do bring the hard stuff…”

Thor shrugged, unbothered that he might be excluded, instead looking over at Steve, who had been ready to depart.

“Though I would appreciate any opportunity for time with Jane, I am sure that Steve wouldn’t mind going down to the deck for some discussion.”

Which was exactly how Steve found himself sitting next to a demigod looking at the stars and passing back the aforementioned flask full of liquid that burned in the right way from his hair to his toenails. He thought about the hangovers and the way his head would throb the next day as he took his second sip but he shrugged it off. Team bonding for starters, and even if Thor had seemed cool and unbothered upstairs, he certainly had been anxious to spend an evening with someone even if Darcy had stolen Jane away.

Steve shrugged off the possibility of an unforgiving hangover after an equally unforgiving Asgardian spirit because perhaps he had been as lonely for company as Thor. It was a thought he kept to himself as he sat in silence next to the fellow soldier and imagined what it must be like to grow up on a different planet, what it must be like to be older than most civilizations on Earth.

“Have you discussed your feelings and intentions with Natasha?”

Steve’s heart jumped just enough at the mention of her name and he looked down. He felt loose enough that he didn’t hold back the groan, even as his sensibilities reminded him that he didn’t have anything to groan about. And part of him wondered how Thor might know he had feelings for Natasha at all, as if Asgardian liquor was some kind of truth serum that made everything plain as day on his face. Darcy had said they had heart eyes…

“She’s an important component of our team,” he said, lowering his voice as if to make himself sound as sober as possible. “The Avengers wouldn’t be the Avengers without her.”

“True,” the other man nodded. “And you complement each other well, both in battle and out…”

“It’s complicated,” Steve interrupted, holding his hand out for the flask. It was also something he’d been trying to avoid thinking about, with no help from the blond sitting to his right. They had something, Thor was right. And even when Steve had tried to keep his distance, the pull to Natasha foolish and frustrating as hell. “We’re just friends, I think.”

“Allies,” Thor agreed.

“Right. Not any different than how I stand with you or any of the other guys,” Steve nodded.

“And yet you are intimate with Natasha in ways that you and I are not.”

Steve hung his head, recognizing he’d walked right into that trap. “Right, but it’s just physical. That has to be common practice in Asgard as much as it is here.”

“It’s good for morale, laying with a fellow soldier, of course,” Thor smiled and squinted his eyes as if remembering. “There was one battle, right at Niffleheim, when we would have frozen had our warriors not come together in that way...”

“Exactly,” Steve took a gulp from the flask, feeling just the right amount of lightheaded. It made sense that Thor would understand the arrangement he had with Natasha. Thor was however many centuries old enough that he’d probably had scores of similar arrangements himself, and then Steve thought about the demigod with his pants around his ankles and his sword in one hand in preparation to either celebrate or cause serious damage. The idea made him laugh, even though it probably wasn’t supposed to be funny.

“There must be freedom in this arrangement then,” Thor continued. “If you hold no claim over Natasha, surely you are both able to enjoy the company of others. If Dr. Banner or Clint wanted to spend time with her, it wouldn’t bother you. I admire that.”

When Steve was nine years old, Eugene Cunningham pushed him on the playground at school because he wouldn't play "Friday Flip-up Day," a stupid game that involved flipping up the girls' skirts, something he could tell just about every girl dreaded. Eugene, as fat as Steve had been scrawny, had figured right when he’d guessed that calling Steve a chicken would earn him a fight but he’d done it anyway. Steve could remember knowing it was a trap, knowing that he’d end up with a busted lip and a black eye but fighting nonetheless.

He thought about Eugene and how he’d known when Thor made the suggestion that Natasha was available to have a relationship with anyone. Looking into Thor’s eyes, he knew that Thor was so clearly baiting him. It was the same kind of trap, of course, except that this time Steve wasn’t going to throw punches. Because, of course, Thor was right. The idea of Natasha with anyone else made his blood boil but if they were just friends who were occasionally intimate, he had no right to demand exclusivity. He was her “bro” but who was to say that she couldn’t also be “bros” with anyone else.

He felt heavy, his stomach in his balls, undoubtedly a sign that it was time to stop drinking and time to go to his apartment. Thor’s point about his existing “arrangement” with Natasha was the perfect cue for him to stand up and start walking.

“I hope I didn’t say the wrong thing,” Thor said casually, walking alongside him on their way to the elevator.

“It’s fine,” Steve huffed, pushing the button down.

“Perhaps,” Thor shrugged. He looked smug. Like he knew he’d rattled Steve’s cage and Steve took another drink from the flask out of spite.

“Just friends,” Steve repeated.

“Does repeating it enough times make it so?”

 _The lady doth protest too much._ Steve remembered studying that phrase in school. He groaned again and leaned his head back against the elevator wall.

“Fuck you, Thor,” he mumbled. It was the alcohol talking but he knew Thor could take it. Just like he knew that he was projecting all over the place- it still felt good to say.

“I might have considered that as an option once, especially considering your stance on intimacy between soldiers. But I am in a relationship with Jane...” Thor grinned, holding his hand out as if to signal that Steve could pass when the elevator doors had opened.

“Fuck you again,” Steve repeated, only barely aware that he might have slurred the last insult. They walked towards the dining area into the kitchen and he thought about how good his bed sounded. Water made sense, his mouth felt like it was full of cotton balls already, but the end goal was his bed. Or even the floor. If he went up to Natasha’s apartment, would she open the door? Her bed sounded nice. He imagined soft sheets and her even softer skin. How good it would feel to lay next to her and just hold her or even be held by her. How nice it would be to just be normal.

He’d forgotten how strong Asgardian booze was. Steve reviewed the few times in his life that he’d been drunk, reviewed where on the continuum of “drunk” he was in his present state. Not falling down, not the way he’d been the first time Thor had offered him a drink. He still had more than enough control, slurring words and wanting to sock Thor aside.

“You guys sound like you’ve had a party.”

Steve looked around and saw Thor rummaging through the pantry for something to eat. He knew it was Natasha right away, even before seeing her sitting at the kitchen table with a mug in her hand, and then he felt his face grow hot. Being caught in such a state with Thor. If he wasn’t too busy feeling lightheaded, he might have felt a bit more shame.

“Natasha…ma’am…Natasha…” He licked his lips. She looked so cozy at the table. Cozy and sober and right-minded. He thought about scooping her up into his arms, wondered if she’d mind if he asked her to dance. ( _That idea_ , he knew, was definitely the alcohol).

“Good evening, Natasha,” Thor said cheerfully, sitting down with a bag of potato chips. “You look well.”

Steve opened his mouth to say something but chose to bite the inside of his cheek instead. She did look well. She _always_ looked well. That was part of the problem. He thought about how hard things were, how easy Thor had made it all sound. Just talk to her. Like he hadn’t tried? He thought about how many times he’d tried right there in the kitchen, right there where Thor was stuffing his face.

 _Bros who fuck._ It occurred to him that maybe he hadn’t talked to her successfully because he didn’t want to. That maybe he actually was okay with furtive and frustrating physical intimacy and all the high walls and the rules that prevented them from ever actually making it to a bed. Making it to a bed would make them more than they were.

It must have been the alcohol that he was suddenly mad at her and mad at himself. Mad for his insecurity and his loneliness. Mad because he wanted her so much and mad because he’d had her in so many ways and it had never been quite enough.

“I’m in love with you.”

He said it and then clasped his hand against his mouth because he hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t meant to say it out loud or at all.

Natasha and Thor both looked over at him, Natasha with wide eyes and Thor with sympathy, and he prepared himself for laughter and teasing.

“What?” she asked and he couldn’t tell if she was angry or confused or if he’d messed things up or not.

“What? I just wanted to know if anyone else wants toast. Toast? Anyone?” he fumbled and opened the refrigerator to pull out the butter.

“That’s not what you asked,” Natasha countered. He wasn’t surprised that she wouldn’t let it pass.

“What?” he answered, hoping that he could play up being intoxicated. As if the fine spirits of Asgard might provide an alibi for his loose lips and stupidity.

“You said something else, Steve. Don’t say something like that and then pretend you didn’t. You said you loved me.” Her eyes flashed and he thought maybe she looked angry after all.

“It doesn’t matter, Natasha,” Steve stammered, feeling cornered. “I know what this is…”

“What what is?” she challenged, putting her mug down on the table. He wondered how many men had confessed their love to her. If she’d ever be able to take his own love at face value or if it was true that her heart was too hardened. She might have expected better from him. Something professional with an occasional side of “let’s fool around” and he felt shame at not being able to give her what she needed.

“Us? Bros who… fuck? Like I know you want to keep things physical…” he started, face feeling hot. He couldn’t decide if he’d said too much or not, so much of him done with holding back what he really thought.

“Bros who fuck?” she repeated. There was hardness in her voice that made him wish he’d just gone straight to his apartment after all. “Who even told you that? Christ, who taught you that one?”

“I’m going to go find Jane,” Thor announced, excusing himself faster than fast. Steve had honestly forgotten he was even there, too busy mentally reviewing all of the things that he meant to say if he and Natasha were finally about to actually talk. It was so fitting that they’d have the conversation in a place that had so much meaning, and he wondered how much he’d have to say before she’d let him retreat. He felt like he was probably overthinking it, like they were breaking up or something. A relationship had to be in place before breaking up was possible. No, this was just reestablishing healthy boundaries.

“Clint? I think?” he answered, bracing himself for the conversation. Something they needed to talk about. Clarity. No use beating around the bush.

“ _Christ,_ ” she repeated, rolling her eyes. “Christ, Steve. You think I fuck all my partners? That I’ve fucked the whole team or something?”

Steve thought about what Thor had said earlier with Clint and Bruce, his stomach clenching at the images the suggestion had produced. He didn’t think she was intimate with anyone else but he wasn’t sure he cared even if she had or was. He’d had no illusions about her history with Clint or about her history at all, with anyone. He hadn’t really known what to think, in all honestly, except that the idea of her wanting anything more with him just seemed preposterous. Natasha wasn’t that woman. Not the woman he’d settle down with. _To what?_ Make a Sunday morning breakfast with? Crepes with Natasha and then maybe all the domestic things she’d probably scoff at. Sunday afternoon walks through the park. Holding hands. Discussions about future plans. Even thinking about it felt stupid.

Impossible with Natasha and then he was leaning his head against the refrigerator door for the realization that whatever they were doing wouldn’t work. Wasn’t fair to either of them and he couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t do “no strings attached” and couldn’t pretend to be someone he wasn’t.

“And what if I want more, Steve? You think I’m only looking for a fuckbuddy? A good lay?”

Steve scoffed, missing all of the content in her words because no matter what she said, it was important to have the discussion. Get it over with. A _“fuckbuddy”?_ He shook his head. “No, I’m trying to tell you that I can’t, Natasha. If that’s what you want, I can’t do it. I can’t even be around you anymore without wanting you. It wouldn’t be safe for things to keep going the way they are going, not unless I wanna get one or both of us killed...”

“And what if that’s not what I’m looking for at all, Rogers? Is that all you want? Really? Because I can give your number to any handful of girls who I know would be interested. Pam in legal was just saying the other day…” she seethed, sounding uncharacteristically wounded. It was like being caught in a storm and Steve wasn’t sure how to get out, trying to explain to her that they had to stop because he loved her.

“What? Natasha, why do you think…” he grabbed her shoulders, feeling desperate to get her to understand. “You know, no, I don’t want to. You’re right. I don’t want to because I want more. I don’t want to be your bro or whatever stupid term you want to call it. I’m saying I want to slow down. Maybe take you to a movie or something. Spend an afternoon kissing every inch of your body and not getting interrupted in the process because you’re my girl and that’s what you deserve…”

He was rambling. The words tumbled out before he could stop them and he registered that she’d gone from brow furrowed in confusion or maybe frustration to brow furrowed and corners of her mouth turned up into something he couldn’t read. Just as well because before he could figure it out, she’d pressed that same mouth to his and the kitchen was finally silent.

“You’re an idiot,” she whispered in between kisses that he greedily accepted, even when the logical part of his brain said that kissing was the exact opposite of what he’d intended at the start. "And I am probably going to hurt Clint.”

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, not wanting to disagree with her. “And I’m probably drunk.”

“ _In vino veritas_ ,” she said before tugging on his bottom lip with her teeth. “Not that you need much help.”

He stood half against the refrigerator, gripping the edge of the nearby countertop with one hand, and prayed she’d keep going, that she’d kiss him again and again because the high of it had always been greater than anything chemical. That was the problem, he thought distantly. Even when he was armed with the idea of propriety and “we shouldn’t, we shouldn’t, we shouldn’t”, she might always be his downfall.

He didn't like backing down from a fight. Not with Eugene Cunningham or any of the bullies he’d encountered from that point on. Not even with Thor. It wasn’t that gripping the countertop next to the refrigerator while she kissed him was a battle. But there she was and she could do just about whatever she wanted. She gripped his hair and he thought about the story he’d heard as a kid. Samson, the big strong hero from the Old Testament, who lost it all when he fell in love with Delilah, who cut off all his hair and the source of his strength. Natasha had him, just like Delilah had had Samson.

“I want more,” she whispered through clenched teeth, grabbing his hair for emphasis, just enough to get his attention and then he had to look down and meet her eyes. Her admission was so incomplete and ungraceful, it mirrored his own desperation.

His body was so hot and he laughed, feeling light and suddenly unguarded. Like she could do anything. _Surrender, surrender, surrender._

"Funny?" she smiled slyly and he knew he was blushing but he pulled her close anyway. He’d felt tired earlier, sluggish from a long day coupled with booze. But a sudden burst of energy coursed through his veins and he just wanted.

"I guess I am drunk. And we are in a kitchen."

"And you said you loved me," she nodded and for a split second he forgot why their present location and his present mental state might be problems. She'd said she wanted more. Natasha had said she wanted something more than just a bro.

“I did. I do,” he put his palm to her cheek, something she leaned into, and he really did then, even if she never said it back.

“You’re drunk.”

“You think I mean it less?”

Natasha arched her brow and pulled his shirt like a leash, steering him toward the kitchen table, before pushing him down on the chair she’d been sitting at only minutes later. “No, not less.”

Steve tried to sputter out a coherent defense. “I will tell you. Tomorrow and the day after and for as long as you need to hear it. More than…”

“Yes,” she smiled and kissed him, straddling his lap. “More than bros. _Fucking Clint_.”

“I hope not,” he scoffed and she laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“You are such a boy,” she chastised, and then she shifted, hips rolling deliberately and his body definitely paying attention. They were both in jeans, just as well given their track record, but he bucked his hips up anyway. Another wonderful side effect of Thor’s flask, he decided, in that he wasn’t interested in even trying to ignore the way she made him feel. If anything, he decided as he slid his hands up her back, he wanted her to feel it more.

“Are we going to even try to talk ourselves out of this?” She asked, breath picking up speed as she ground against him.

“Natasha Romanoff, I have spent so much time and energy trying to get you into my bed…” he growled, pulling at her shirt. She wasn’t wrong but he was too drunk to care. They’d make their way up. How could they not now that they were both on the same page? She’d said she wanted more. More the way he wanted more friction on his cock right then if he was honest. _She didn’t want him just as a friend. She wanted more. More? Could he call her his girlfriend? Was that too much?_

“You want that?” she asked, pressing her lips to his. “To call me your girlfriend? Really?”

Steve nodded, embarrassed that he’d said it out loud, embarrassed that he was being so transparent. “Would that be okay?”

“I don’t know,” she said in all seriousness. She’d stopped moving for a second, lost in thought, looking so young just then.

“I… it’s up to you, of course,” he stuttered, feeling like he needed to backtrack suddenly. Natasha reached between her legs to palm at his erection. His head fell back and he sighed, mentally willing her to keep going.

"Shhh," she ordered, fingers teasing along the button to his pants like she was still deliberating whether or not to go forward. "I... didn't say no."

Steve's fingers danced underneath her shirt, tickling her belly and ribs in a way he'd seen lead to shivers once or twice. When she did indeed squirm, it was like a change reaction and he was right there with her electric currents passing from one body to the other. He wasn't sure if the moans filling an otherwise silent kitchen were his or hers.

"Is that okay?” she asked and for a second he didn’t quite follow. Was what okay? The increasingly unbearable pressure she was putting on his crotch? The friction that made him dizzier than he already was? The fact that they _still_ hadn’t made their way out of the kitchen? Steve decided not to answer, directing his focus instead to the soft fabric of her bra and the neat way that he could pull the cups down and just almost pull her free. It felt like cheating, finding a hardened nipple even though she was still so very clothed and he laughed at himself for taking so long to figure it out.

Actions that Natasha very much approved of, he noted, because she was sighing, hot breath nuzzling into his neck. She was tense in his arms, shudders and rocking and he thought about how miraculous it was having her in his arms. It felt good, so good, and the thought crossed his mind that while they weren’t naked they definitely weren’t innocent, that things were definitely about to cross a line…

“Tell me again,” she shuddered, a tinge of begging on her lips before meeting his mouth with hers again.

“That I’m in love with you?” Steve guessed, hands moving to her hips because he didn’t want her to move or to stop or to ever leave. It was a good guess because she nodded and then he was repeating it in between kisses. _I love you, I am so in love with you, I love you._

“Well, fuck me, glad to finally hear you say it.”

“Darcy,” Natasha panted, collapsing into his arms as if to surrender herself. Steve groaned at the inevitability that they would be interrupted, a thumb gently caressing one of Natasha’s thighs in commiseration. He looked over toward the doorway to spot the intern, eyes devoted not even to them anymore but rather to her phone.

“I thought you were with Dr. Foster,” he announced, using the most professional voice he could muster given the circumstance.

“Yeah, I was. But Thor happened,” she shrugged. “I’m texting her right now. She says hi.”

Their pattern had been to awkwardly break apart, frustrated at the interruption. But Steve noted that for once Natasha hadn’t moved except to grab his free hand and lace her fingers with his.

“Let’s go to your place?” she whispered into his ear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I'd like to mention that I did, when naming this fic, google first. Blame [wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_petite_mort) and see, I'm not crazy.


	6. la petite mort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, chapter title taken from google/wikipedia. Blame them.  
>  __  
> "La petite mort (French... the little death) is an expression which means "the brief loss or weakening of consciousness" and in modern usage refers specifically to "the sensation of orgasm as likened to death".
> 
>  
> 
> _The first attested use of the expression in English was in 1572 with the meaning of "fainting fit". It later came to mean "nervous spasm" as well. The first attested use with the meaning of "orgasm" was only in 1882. In modern usage, this term has generally been interpreted to describe the post-orgasmic state of unconsciousness that some people have after having some sexual experiences._
> 
>  
> 
> _More widely, it can refer to the spiritual release that comes with orgasm or to a short period of melancholy or transcendence as a result of the expenditure of the "life force"._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought [this recipe](http://www.brit.co/valentine-breakfast-in-bed-recipes/egg-in-a-basket-2/) looked quite delicious.

Steve Rogers bought his sheets at Target.

Natasha smiled at the thought, stretching beneath them, her toes peeking out when she pulled the sheets up to her chin. Dark blue sheets that felt stiff, as if they’d just been pressed, and a grey comforter that wasn’t much softer but was at least warm. She would have thought he’d just bought them, probably in a matching bag and probably because they were on sale, except that they smelled like him. Her heart raced when she buried her face into space where he had been sleeping.

“JARVIS,” she called out as she reluctantly sat up. “Where is Steve?”

The kitchen, according to the AI, and Natasha smiled at the thought. _His_ kitchen, in _his_ apartment, more specifically.

She rolled her eyes at her own giddiness, knowing full well that giddy was not something she did. Not for real, at least. Not that she could stop the way her face hurt from smiling whenever she even thought about him. Not that she wanted to, if she was honest.

Sliding out of bed, Natasha scanned his bedroom floor for something to put on. They’d managed to make it to the bedroom the night before, even with the kisses and grinding and panting, and she remembered tossing her bra somewhere.

The tangle of Steve’s shitty sheets was the only thing out of order. Had he picked up her clothes when he woke up? She rolled her eyes again, this time at him, not that she could say she wasn’t surprised or endeared. He’d probably catch hives just sitting in her bedroom. Natasha wasn't a slob, but her room was her safe space, a place she’d never let anyone see. She kept things tidy enough, but she at least had her bathrobe hanging from a hook on the door and it wasn’t unheard of to find a t-shirt on the floor.

Small sacrifices, she decided as she padded over to Steve’s closet and opened the door.

_He’d said he wanted her to be his girlfriend._

She reached out and ran her fingers along the clothes hung up in front of her, ( _not color-coded as she almost anticipated_ ). The grandpa flannel he’d worn in the beginning. The whites worn for special occasions, next to suit jackets. He had one of those wheels for ties and she touched a blue and red striped one that she didn’t think she’d ever seen him wear. Slipping it off the rack, Natasha wrapped it around one of her fists, her mind on all of the things she could do. _Later_ , she smiled, giving her attention back to the rest of his clothes.

Returning the tie to its’ wheel, Natasha reached for one of his grey sweatshirts. As she pulled it off the hanger, Natasha felt that giddiness rise up again. _Giddy. Silly._ Stupid and willingly so, she sighed as she pulled her head through the hole. It didn’t cover enough but she doubted he’d complain. Looking down at the stamped letters- an S, H, I, E, L, and D- she thought about how stealing his sweatshirt was exactly the kind of thing she would do if she was his girlfriend.

She’d only ever done the girlfriend thing as an act. Her life was complicated, too complicated for labels and constructs. But she’d started it, hadn’t she? Set the ball rolling by stealing post-mission kisses and more in dark hotel rooms. Had she even ever believed that it was ever just fucking with Steve?

Natasha walked into the kitchen and leaned against the wall, as quiet as a mouse for the sake of surprise and a few more seconds to think. Steve was standing, bare-chested and pajama pants hanging low on his hips. His shoulders. The expanse of sharp edges and planes and skin that she knew tasted like salt. How many times had she laid in bed at night and thought of gripping his arms, his shoulders, of running her hands down his back? In the beginning, she’d be a liar to say that it wasn’t at least significantly about fucking.

It was adorable and frustrating, how hard he’d tried to keep things casual. She thought she still might hurt Clint for putting words in her mouth, even if they were the truth, not that she and Steve were even entirely _friends_ at the start _,_ to match the benefits. She had to hold in a laugh, she’d been just as knee-deep in denial.

When?

Not when she’d teased him over breakfast that one morning, even if she had sought him out as a temporary fix to the restlessness she was feeling. She’d needed someone or something to take her mind off the frustration she’d woken up feeling, her apartment empty and quiet and cold and the feeling of _how did I get here, something is missing_ (the _loneliness_ ). Maybe he’d looked a little bit lost then, too, though less so when she was offering praises and gripping his hair (because then, if anything, he’d worked between her legs with the same focus and determination she’d come to count on).

She watched as he cracked eggs into a bowl and started whisking, the scraping of the fork filling the room. Her thighs ached in the best way and she was glad and ready to move through it, knowing full well that aching muscles didn’t necessarily mean stop. _Walk it off_ , he might say. How many times had she heard him say that to a recruit? To a sparring partner? To her, only to dodge her fist because she was quite honestly the last one who needed to be told to keep going?

( _Had it become more when he’d slammed her against the refrigerator door? When she’d ignored aching muscles and a bruise on her shoulder so that she could go one more round with him in the Avengers kitchen? There had been a loss of control, hadn’t there? A precipice that she was so close to diving off of because even when he was rough, he was so gentle and she felt so safe_.)

_(Or had it been the time she’d feared she’d nearly lost him? Lost them for whatever they were because he was so worried about what people might think, so worried about what people might think of her? No, the blow job in the kitchen pantry- that had been almost to prove a point, that she didn’t give a flying fuck about decorum and office gossip, with only the smallest shread of fear that whatever they had and whatever they were was unsustainable, couldn’t last.)_

“Whatcha making?” she asked, sidling herself up behind him so that she could run her hands up his chest and kiss his spine. Breakfast. He was making her breakfast. _God, how charming._

“Eggs in a basket,” he said and she could hear the smile, the energy and excitement and all of it for her. He’d never made her breakfast. Had they even ever had breakfast together? She was sure they had, even if she couldn’t remember. Eggs in a basket was on a long list of intimate things that they had never gotten far enough to do. He put the bowl down so that he could turn and kiss her good morning.

Steve’s eyes zeroed on her bare legs and he looked almost pained. Hearing him groan as his hands verified that she really wasn’t wearing anything other than the SHIELD hoodie he’d worn occasionally to the gym, and she decided it was an article of clothing she was going to keep.

“There’s fruit,” Steve motioned with his head toward a brown wicker basket on the kitchen table, his hunger taking precedent over any further activity. Not that she could blame him. Apples, bananas, oranges, and pineapple. Natasha plucked a grape as she picked up the card sitting against a white teddy bear with a red heart on its’ chest.

_Stark Industries thanks you for finally leaving the kitchen._

_Love, Darcy_

_P.S. Pineapple is good for everyone_

She smiled and rummaged for knife and cutting board, attacking the biggest piece of fruit to the sound of a sizzling pan, her fingers sticky for the effort. Half naked and cutting fruit with Steve Rogers. It was the most domestic thing Natasha never thought she’d ever live to see.

_“Never have I ever actually spent the night with a man,” she’d said, knowing she’d be the only one and knowing she was cheating to even say it, even if she’d done so because she liked to win._

_“You’ve never stayed over? Had breakfast together? Morning sex?” The girls pretended they didn’t believe her, even if no one was really surprised. And Darcy tossed back her tequila, a smug grin on her face._

_“I am drunk enough, Romanoff, to call bullshit. That’s why you and Captain America keep fucking in the kitchen, because you don’t want to stay…ow!”_

_She’d stopped long enough to give Jane a dirty look for pinching her under the table. Natasha pretended to laugh it off._

Natasha scooped up the pineapple and put it into a metal bowl she’d found in one of his low cupboards.

“Just about ready,” he said, pulling plates out.

“I thought you might be hungover,” she said as she walked over to the kitchen sink. He laughed, low and self-deprecating.

“I am, I think. A little,” he reached for her wrist and pulled her close. Natasha gasped as he brought her pulse to his lips, his tongue brushing against the already-dried juice on her skin. “But I haven’t changed my mind and I meant every word.”

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

She thought she should say something, about how she knew he loved her or knew that he meant it or that she was sorry for the lingering headache. And the something else because there was Something Else, wasn’t there. A big Something Else and the source of that stupid giddiness and the giggle that hid in the back of her throat as he kissed and sucked gently against all of the stickiness of her palm and her forearm until his lips were on hers.

It was good pineapple.

He was lazy in his kisses, not frenetic or desperate like most times. Lacking the adrenaline and not-so-hidden fear of being caught that she’d come to expect and feed off of. Natasha sighed into him and let him lead, her stomach doing flip-flops and every cell in her body rejoicing at how lovely and sweet it was. Why hadn’t they done this sooner?

“I can’t really believe you are here,” he confessed, breaking apart so that he could plate the eggs.

“Should I go?” she teased and he handed her a plate.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned. “Now, eat. Before it gets cold.”

Natasha looked down at her eggs and bit her lip. She couldn’t really remember the tipping point, when it had become more. And how much more? She wasn’t even really sure except that she really did enjoy breakfast.

Steve Rogers hadn’t just made toast. He’d made heart-shaped toast. Adorable and cute, big heart-shaped pieces cut-out of the middle and filled in with egg. The kind of thing Natasha would normally joke earned him the title of resident soccer mom. Except that this time, she looked at her plate and swooned.

She’d stayed. She’d stayed and they’d made it all the way to the bedroom where he’d made good on his promise to kiss every inch of her body. And then she’d woken up to heart-shaped breakfast.

“I love you,” she murmured, the words escaping before she could pull them back in. Not that she even wanted to.

Steve stopped short of the bite he’d been about to put in his mouth and gaped.

“Should I say it again? I should say it again,” she breathed.

He nodded, making her laugh and feel high. “Yeah, say it again. I mean, if you want to. I want you to.”

Natasha didn’t believe the words were even hers, except that they were and they made so much sense. She thought she would have felt alarm bells, if ever she’d felt that way about someone. Alarm bells and all of the protective danger signs telling her that even if he did love her, there was no way she could possibly love him back.

They came out easier than she would have thought and that made her smile. Opposite what she would have expected, what anyone would have expected. Because that was how she’d been trained, _fuck you very much, Red Room._  The words came out easy and it was a relief to say them, a relief to mean them, and so she repeated them without flinching.

“I love you.”

She told him again and again, just as he had the night before with her, moving to sit on his lap so that she could kiss the words into his lips for punctuation. Lacing his fingers through her hair, Steve took her kisses without words and that was perfect because she didn’t need them. He put a hand on her naked thigh and she shivered, hungry for more.

“The food is going to get cold,” he said with a grin as she lifted his sweater over her head.

“I can make you more eggs,” she raised an eyebrow.

“That’s true…” he admitted, reaching up to run a thumb along one of her nipples. She shifted against him, rolling her hips for persuasion. “There is something awfully tempting about getting you to come in my kitchen…”

“It would be a first,” she smirked, looking toward the door to his apartment. “JARVIS, we aren’t to be interrupted…”

“Not even if the building is on fire,” he called out after her, pushing his plate away so that he could lift her up onto the kitchen table. She squeaked and then squeaked some more as he grabbed her hips and pulled her close, hungry kisses along the inside of her thigh. Natasha leaned back, vaguely aware of the way the table groaned as he spread her wide open.

“I haven’t…” she started to say that she hadn’t yet showered, that she undoubtedly tasted like sex, like him, and like nothing innocent or clean at all. Not that she cared but she did care that he might care, because she loved him…

“Don’t care,” he mumbled into her skin, his fingertips opening her up and causing her to clench out of instinct.

She couldn’t remember when she’d realized how gifted he was at this, his tongue fluttering and then insisting that she fall apart. Dubai? She thought vaguely, gripping the edge and then, when he’d started sucking, gripping his hair. Who would even think, she mused, that Captain America would be so good with his…

She would have laughed except that she was too busy moaning, except that any solid train of thought was stolen and erased by skilled fingers.

“More,” she moaned even as she bucked her hips up. So good, so close. But not enough because even though she liked the pressure, she wanted to be filled. “More. _Bol’she, oh bozhe, bol’she_ , _more_.”

He looked up at her with raised eyebrows, eyes playful, and she thought for a second he was going to pretend he hadn’t heard her. That she wasn’t going to be the one to say when or how she came and she whimpered, dug her nails into his shoulder in protest.

Natasha had wanted more, hadn’t she? It was what she’d asked for, and yet even the seconds that it took for him to stand up and kick his pants off felt painful, her need to be touch so great it was overwhelming.

“Can you say it again?” he asked, cupping her cheek in his hand.

“I love you,” she complied, telling him in every language she could think of for good measure. Steve nodded, kissing her until she was reaching for his cock in impatience.

They’d fucked before. Hell, they’d fucked the night before. It shouldn’t have felt as different as did. But he cradled her in his arms and leaned into her and Natasha thought maybe she couldn’t breathe. There was the _full_ she’d been craving, her entire focus crammed into the sensation of adjusting to him, to his size and the heaviness of his body.

“I love you back,” he told her, his eyes meeting hers as he started moving, slow and considerate even if her body thrummed and asked that he not hold _anything_ back.

And then he didn’t and there it was.

He didn’t hold back, hips snapping into her and she knew her muscles would hate her for the further torture not that she cared.

He didn’t hold back, his hand pulling hers between her legs so that fingers (their fingers) could tease out that spot.

“I love you,” he said when his strokes were still controlled and intentional, his eyes never leaving hers, not even when the table shifted and the plates jumped and rattled and she thought something might break.

Natasha clung to him, her lips close enough to kiss his except that she didn’t want to at the end. Not then, when it seemed important to shudder against him, to cry out as her body responded to his in waves of pleasure-pain and completion. He held her gaze through it and she thought, quid-pro-pro, holding his face to encourage eyes open as he fell over the edge himself. It felt needy and necessary. No hand-holding or sweet words, because he loved her and said he’d wanted a relationship. A relationship with Natasha Romanoff. The thought might make the ordinary person who knew her laugh but she didn’t care. He’d said he loved her and wanted more and she wanted all he would give.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he panted as he pulled out, kissing along her stomach for good measure, returning to his seat and planting his cheek on her knee.

“I don’t want to move except that this table is pretty fucking uncomfortable,” she moaned, wiggling her fingers until they found a hand that she didn’t realize she’d been looking for. It took her breath away. “And what are you so damned for?”

He pulled her up and smiled, ( _there. There it is, that’s the smile that makes me feel like my heart is doing somersaults_ ).

“We actually finished.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are finished, here at least, and so am I :) (yassss I finished something!! woohoo!!)  
> ====
> 
> Full disclosure: I had in mind partly to write this fic in response to the idea that my otp are just "bros who fuck." I've heard it said (read it written?), even about fics of mine. Possibly, if you like, but not in anything I seem to write :)

**Author's Note:**

> A fandom friendship maxim: I love you, I am writing you some porn.


End file.
